


The Two Pack (An AU of Teenwolf 1.01)

by FavorsTheFoolish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavorsTheFoolish/pseuds/FavorsTheFoolish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so I know that TW fandom is a little... rar right now, but I've been working on this for a while.  It's kind of an experiment.  I went back through season 1, episode 1, and reworked everything as though Stuart was there.  I'm still not sure if I like it or not, but figured it was worth a shot.  May try to do more, may not.</p><p>Over here if you prefer tumblr: http://leastlikelyto.tumblr.com/post/77122234203/experiment-fic-the-two-pack</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Pack (An AU of Teenwolf 1.01)

**Author's Note:**

> BIG WARNINGS: Non-explicit incest, allusions to self-harm, unhealthy relationships, younger Peter Hale being a creep.
> 
> GENERAL WARNING: Stuart is kind of a dick. He's dismissive of Allison and Scott and pretty much anyone not-Stiles, and, consciously or unconsciously, emotionally manipulative of Stiles. The story is third person, mostly from Stuart's POV. Also, there's no explicit sex, because I just can't with characters that young.
> 
> SORT OF ATTEMPT AT REASSURANCE: Part of this experiment, for me, was keeping Scott (almost) as much of a part of Stiles' life as he is in canon. Stuart may not like Scott, but Stiles still loves him. While scenes that neither Stuart or Stiles are in are related rather than fully shown, that's not intended to erase Scott. 
> 
> Spoilers: The first episode of the series and, obtusely, Mama Stilinski's cause-of-death.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no profit.

 

It wasn’t as though Stuart liked having the flu.  No one liked having the flu; he was pretty sure even hardcore masochists didn’t like having the flu.  It was a kind of uncontrolled and unfocused discomfort that someone probably had a thing for, someplace, because someone somewhere had a thing for _everything_ , but it was not Stuart’s particular cup of tea. 

Having said that, Stuart was considering skipping his flu shot next year, despite the fact that it hadn’t worked this one. Putting yourself in direct line of viral fire just for attention from your twin brother who barely left your side as it was went beyond codependency and probably into some serious Münchausen-y self-harm territory, but c’mon.  Feeling like he was gonna die was a small price to pay for feeling like the center of the universe.

It was beyond affection, beyond undivided attention.  The way Stiles doted on sick-Stuart reached a level of devotion unrivaled outside of romance novels and mythology and really sweet stories of dogs and cats finding their ways home.  Stiles always tried to skip school himself.  Stiles’ argument was that with the same immune system as Stuart, he himself had to be contagious, or just a carrier.  Stuart had heard Stiles arguing with their dad first thing that morning, the sound muffled through the floor and the stairway and the full body throb of the flu.

 “Typhoid Mary, Dad; I could totally be the vector that starts the zombie apocalypse, and besides, you don’t want Stu to burn the house down because he’s all hopped up on dayquil, right?  Right!” Stiles reeled off as he hustled their dad out the door to work.  He was back upstairs seconds after the front door had latched and immediately got to work on spoiling the hell out of Stuart. 

 The flu felt horrible, but it was such a fantastic deal when the payoff was being in a two-person world with just Stiles.  They watched movies, youtube videos, Stiles read their history assignment to him, then a few more chapters of _The Stranger_ , which had been hard for them both.  Late into the afternoon, he was half dozing and wasn’t really sure if Stiles finger-combing his hair was real or a dream until Stiles put his cheek to Stuart’s forehead, exactly like their mother used to, and frowned. 

 “Dude, you’re still rocking that fever.” 

 Stuart shrugged listlessly. 

 “It’ll get better,” he assured Stiles, which, yeah, technically it would, unless this was one of those super-flu years where the young and the healthy started coming down with pneumonia. 

"Eaten anything today?” Stiles asked, which was dumb, because of course Stuart hadn’t.  Stuart hadn’t really been out of Stiles’ sight, let alone in the kitchen putting together a stroganoff.  He just shook his head, pushing it against Stiles’ hand until the hair combing resumed.  “Anything sound like it’d taste good?”

 “Red Kit.  Coupon on the fridge,” Stuart suggested. 

 “Duck soup, huh?” Stiles agreed, reading his mind based on the place.  “That’d probably help.  Ducky goodness.  I’ll get some tea, too, and I’ll be back in a bit.”

“They deliver,” Stuart frowned, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and clinging. 

 “Yeah, if you wanna eat at like, ten, sure, we can get delivery,” Stiles answered.  Stuart could hear him rolling his eyes, but he could also hear him smiling, especially when he hugged Stuart back.  “I’ll be right back; don’t freak out on me.”

 Stuart loosened his grip reluctantly, knowing better than to vocalize that he’d rather just not eat.  Stiles gave him another affectionate hair scruff and got up, sticking a bottle of gatorade into Stuart’s hand before he left.  Stuart drank slowly, listening to the rattle of the Jeep starting up as Stiles went to the Thai fusion place just for him. 

Whenever their dad texted or called to say he'd be home late, both twins immediately turned on the scanner and listened for whatever was the cause.  Stuart's phone buzzed, message received, and he flipped on walkie talkie they kept set to the right band.

  _"...partial body in the woods, out at the preserve."_

 Stuart grabbed his phone and called Stiles.

"Dad’s fine,” Stuart said the moment the call connected, hopefully derailing any panic attacks Stiles might be having about the Sheriff texting them from a shootout or something.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked. 

“They found half a body in the woods and I'm still too achy to move," Stuart groaned into the phone.  There was a long pause.  “Stiles?”

"I'm near there,” Stiles mentioned.  “Since you’re not super hungry—”

“Ugh.  Go check it out if you have to,” Stuart finished for him, cursing himself for not playing up his hunger or his separation anxiety before Stiles had left, one or the other, “just don’t let Dad catch you.  And don’t let my soup get cold.”

Stuart ended the call and tossed his phone onto his pillow, glaring at the paint on the wall.  There was something extra offensive about being blown off for someone else.  Half of someone else, no less. 

Except that of course the Sheriff caught Stiles.  It was pretty much a given.  Fortunately for Stiles, there wasn’t really any way to ground your kid when your kid was already staying in his room looking after his sick brother, even if he had taken a detour to screw with your crime scene.  Stiles had the decency to look sheepish while he unpacked Stuart’s food and listened to their dad’s lecture.

“You’re getting too old for this, Stiles,” he said, standing in their bedroom doorway as Stiles carefully set the food down on the bedside table.  “Seriously.  You can’t crash crime scenes over the age of… I don’t know, but you’re past it.”

“That is so unfair,” Stiles argued, handing Stuart a spoon and sitting on the bed by his calves.  “How was I supposed to invade a crime scene when I was too young to drive?  Stu, did he take you to crime scenes when we were little?  This is such a betrayal.  I knew you were the favorite.”

“ _Stiles,”_ the sheriff snapped.  “We’ll discuss this more when I get back.  For now, neither of you leaves this house unless you’re taking the other to the hospital, got it?”

 “And I’ll have you know that Deputy Miller still thinks I’m adorable!” Stiles called after him.  He waited until they could hear the cruiser pull out of the driveway, but then Stiles’ mediocre show of contrition vanished completely.  He dove off the bed for his sweatshirt on the floor, nearly upending Stuart’s soup, and yanked out his phone.

“Stiles, don’t shake the bed or I’ll puke on you,” Stuart groaned, holding his bowl a couple inches over the tray and hoping for the best.

“You haven’t puked yet, you’re not gonna start now.  Something bit Scott,” Stiles supplied, sitting back against the side of the bed, texting furiously.  Stuart snorted and started chasing noodles with his spoon.

“Of course you took Scott along,” he rasped.  “Get off the floor, Stiles, c’mon.” 

Stiles kept his gaze locked on his phone but got back on the bed on autopilot.  It took a little maneuvering and more energy than Stuart had to spare to bully Stiles to sit against the wall at the head of the bed so that Stuart could lounge against him. 

“Some _thing_ bit Scott,” Stiles repeated, sighing and setting his phone on his leg, looking up at the ceiling. "He tripped over the body and something huge and hairy bit him." 

Despite his irritable tone, Stiles’ hand made it back up to Stuart’s hair where he resumed petting his head.  Despite the resumption of affection, Stuart kept ragging on Scott around bites of duck and cabbage.

“Rabies might make him more interesting,” Stuart muttered against his spoon.

“And here we go,” Stiles sighed.  Stuart snorted and carried on.

“You totally deserve getting caught.  Did the cadaver dogs mistake his wheezing for a squeak toy?  Is that how it happened?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be jealous,” he scolded, and the quick dismissal made Stuart want to bite Scott himself.  “Scott’s like a brother, but I’m only ever gonna have one twin.” 

Stuart almost felt mollified, but then Stiles’ phone buzzed again and he turned his attention back to Scott. 

“Now he wants to know how long he has to get rabies shots,” Stiles relayed, not that Stuart had asked. 

“If only he knew someone, say, a vet…” Stuart grumbled, setting aside the last of the soup.  Stiles said nothing, texting away, until Stuart added softly: “I’m tired.”

And that was all the prompting Stiles needed to toss the phone aside, take the leftover soup back to the kitchen and return quickly.

“Gimme your glasses.  You’re not falling asleep in them again.  How can you even see through these, Stu?  They’re filthy,” Stiles scolded quietly, getting out of his jeans and into sweatpants for bed.  He didn’t even bother making a show of going to his own side of the room, just hopped back to the side between Stuart and the wall so that Stuart could curl up to sleep, listening to Stiles’ heart. 

Maybe it’d turn into pneumonia.  Pneumonia might not be so bad.

 

 

“There aren’t any wolves in California,” Stuart groaned from under his pillow, emerging when Scott kept rambling at Stiles, hopping back and forth between the new girl at school and the thing in the woods like _he_ was the one with ADHD.  When Stuart emerged to try to get Scott to leave, he got an eyeful of Scott peeling off his bandage to show Stiles… no wound.  Stuart hurled his pillow at Scott.

“Put it away, McCall!” he grumbled.  Stiles looked back and forth between the two of them five times in a single second and then snatched his phone off the bedside table.  Once he’d found what he was looking for, he thrust it under Stuart’s nose to show him a picture of a disgusting gaping wound that appeared to have festering in its long-term plans.

“This is what _that_ looked like yesterday!” Stiles jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at Scott. 

Their dad had decided that the only way to punish Stiles was to make him go to school.  Two teachers who liked the Stilinski twins had called concerned.  Adrian Harris, their chemistry teacher, had called hoping that maybe the family- specifically Stiles- had moved to another state, or American Samoa.  Stuart was allowed to stay home as the actual sick brother who hadn’t been caught interfering with police work.  Without Stiles to be his willing and highly entertaining manservant, Stuart spent the day bored and restlessly listless.  Insult to injury was spending his evening being tortured with the problems Scott had roped Stiles into during the day.  Stuart glanced at Scott and then back at the carnage on the phone screen.

“Great. Scott is immortal. Congratulations, Scott, you’re the Highlander,” Stuart said flatly, burrowing deeper into the covers and cocooning his head again.  Stiles sat heavily on the bed and tried to find the edge of the blankets to try to peel him out again, still raving about Scott’s apparent abilities as the Incredible Rabid Boy.  

“ _And_ he did some bullet time crap when Finstock stuck him in goal, blocked like, ninety nine out of a hundred shots,” Stiles added, giving up on finding the corners and just patting his hands all over the lump that was Stuart in an effort to annoy him out. 

“That’s actually less believable than the Highlander thing,” Stuart grumbled, smirking as he heard Scott’s indignant squawk about his athletic prowess.

“I didn’t hear it from him, I heard it from Greenberg,” Stiles verified.

“And I’ve been practicing!” Scott protested.  “Tell him!” 

Stiles made an ambivalent noise.

“Yeah, Scott… you can’t practice your way from complete and utter failure to laser guided ball terminator between seasons.” 

If Scott had sounded indignant at Stuart’s doubt, he was outraged at Stiles’.

“I’m sorry!  Wheaties lied to you; they lied to us all,” Stiles tried to soothe him, which had Stuart smothering the loudest parts of his laughter into the mattress.

"Ugh, whatever,” Scott grumbled, apparently not offended enough to leave. “You're still gonna help me look for my inhaler, right?"

Stiles agreed, in spite of Stuart’s groan and a petulant kick to the mattress, to help Scott look after school the next day.  If Stiles was going to be wandering in the woods again, that meant Stuart had to admit to being well enough for school so that he could make sure no _thing_ bit his little brother.

 

 

Trudging through the leaf litter the next afternoon, Stuart decided he missed having the flu. Having been out the first two days of the semester had him feeling out of the loop, despite not having missed much actual work yet.  The parts he did feel in the loop for had just sucked.  The varsity soccer team was still training in the off-season, and practice had been a rough one.  Matt Daehler had charged Stiles in the goal after Stiles had caught what would have been a magnificent bicycle kick, had Stiles not had magic hands. So Stuart had maybe gotten in Matt's face. A bit. So maybe Matt had backed away, a little paler than before. No blood no foul, he’d thought, but Coach Rhule had different ideas.  Every long muscle in Stuart's body ached from being forced to do laps for twenty minutes alongside Matt while the rest of the team finished the scrimmage. 

There was about to be blood if he had to listen to Scott talk about his new-found sense of smell much longer.  Stiles didn’t chew mint mojito gum anyway; it was some imported caffeinated atrocity that he’d ordered offline.  He’d had one piece and tried to scrape all the tastebuds off his tongue in horror. 

"Are you sure you were over here?" Stiles asked as they circled the same patch of grass for the fifth time. "We were way up by the main trail—"

"I told you, it chased me really far!" Scott protested, looking around the dirt with increasing frustration.

"McCall, you _can't_ run really far," Stuart grumbled, leaning against a tree trunk so that he could pick up his ankle and stretch his quads.

“Which is why I need my inhaler—”

"Scott, don't whine. Stuart, don't be Jackson," Stiles scolded them both. "I will turn these woods around, so help me god."

"It was right here," Scott complained as he shuffled through the leaves, Stiles leaning down to help.

"Well it's not anymore," Stuart sighed, dropping one leg and switching sides. "Can we please go?  If I don’t eat something with potassium soon I’m going to seize up."

Stiles looked over at him stretching and turned back to Scott with resignation.

"Scott, the police didn't find the body, so they didn't move it. Are you sure—" Stiles started, and Stuart smirked at his shoelaces.  Of course, just when it _finally_ looked like they were getting out of there and Stiles was siding with Stuart like he ought to be, Stuart looked up, and the three of them weren’t alone.

“Stiles,” Stuart said under his breath.  Stiles looked at him, then in the direction Stuart flicked his eyes, and slapped Scott’s shoulder.  Scott stood, all three of them lining up to look at the incredibly cliché mysterious stranger.  He had dark hair, pale skin, and a leather jacket that looked like it had just come off the hanger in the store, and Stuart was pretty sure he looked familiar.

“What are you doing here?” the man demanded.  Stiles looked at his feet and Scott stared blankly.  Stuart looked between the three of them and took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose at the situation before breaking the guilty silence himself. 

“Our friend here lost his inhaler somewhere close to here a couple nights ago,” Stuart said, putting his glasses back on with a sigh. The man looked intensely skeptical, and Stuart considered revising his statement to ‘my brother’s friend’ for greater accuracy.  Instead he added: “What?  Without it he could die a sad, wheezy, and eventually bear-eaten death.”

Scott gave him a wide-eyed look of what-the-fuck, so Stuart added again:

“Which we wouldn’t want.”

“This is private property,” the man replied, looking away from Stuart and back at the others.  Stiles opened his mouth to apologize, but Stuart cut him off.

“It’s a preserve,” he bitched back, stepping over to Stiles’ side and putting his right shoulder in front of Stiles’ left.  “There’s not exactly a fence.  I mean, sorry if we disturbed your leaf litter, but it’s not like we’re here to poach rabbits and smoke weed.” 

The stranger’s eyebrows shot up, and he reached into his pocket and over-handed the inhaler at Scott.  Scott caught it, which was the first direct evidence Stuart had seen of any superpowers.

“You have cell phones, right?” the man asked through gritted teeth.  “Ever hear of Google maps?  The preserve border is clearly marked.  Turn on your GPS, get out, and don’t come here again.”

He turned and walked off, and rather than at Scott, the reason they were there, or Stuart, who’d carried on most of the confrontation, he looked last and longest at Stiles, frowning like he’d found the part of a machine that was causing problems but just couldn’t prove it.

"Dude, that was—" Stiles started.

"Derek Hale, " Stuart interrupted, herding Stiles with a shoulder to a shoulder to make him turn, then a hand on his back to get him moving. "C'mon. Before he comes back in an Elmer Fudd hat with a rifle."

Stuart actually let Scott have shotgun (an almost never) to brood in the back seat while Stiles explained Hale to him like he was a human ghost story, something legendary. 

Stuart remembered Hale as a pre-teen kid who yo-yoed between sullen and cocky on the teeter totter of not-quite puberty.  He’d witnessed many of the Stilinski twins’ earliest science fair projects, school plays and such by virtue of having a sister about their age, so their families were in one another’s periphery. 

The Hale memory that stuck out the most for Stuart was the Earth Day science fair. He and Stiles were seven, and had done a project on clonal colonies. Cora Hale's project about how Old Faithful going to explode and kill all humans (and she did specifically say ‘humans,’ which was weird) was two booths down.

Adults had been in and out for hours, staring without reading, smiling bland approval.  The whole event was about three hours, but at seven years old it felt like absolutely forever.   Stiles dozed with his head resting in Stuart's lap while Stuart read, mostly waiting for the whole thing to be over, hopefully before they’d forgotten that they’d ever had a life outside of this science fair.

The afternoon got weird with the arrival of a visitor who Stuart hadn’t heard come in until he spoke.

"Did you decide on this because you're twins?"

Stuart looked up at the question to see a thin, pale teenager, peering at one of their posters, actually reading it.

"Because strictly speaking, twins aren't clones. You have some DNA from both parents, not just one. Now if you were both girls, we could make a case for parthenogenesis, but you're not girls, now are you?"

"Who are you?" Stuart asked, rubbing Stiles' shoulder blades to keep him asleep. The older kid turned from the poster, smiling in a way that wasn’t bland.

"Just a graduate of this fine elementary school.  My niece is predicting the geological apocalypse down the row."

He had the bluest eyes Stuart had ever seen as he stood over the two of them.

"What could be more important than family, right?" he asked, staring too long.

Stuart didn't answer, hoping for an adult to wander in to defuse the situation.  Instead, he got Derek Hale.

“Peter, are you seriously terrorizing little kids?” he’d asked, which rankled Stuart more because he’d been wishing for an adult, not an older kid than being called little.

“Does he look terrorized?” their first visitor, Peter, asked, not taking his eyes off the twins.

Derek cocked his head at Stuart, who glared back at him before going back to staring down Peter.  Peter’s smile widened, like he’d won something, and the creeping burn of shame in Stuart’s gut made him feel like he’d lost something.

"A little,” Derek continued with the practiced boredom of someone who really thinks that they’re amazing, “but this is the age that they tell kids about stranger danger, so I don’t think he’s gonna get  in your windowless white van.”

Peter rolled his eyes, touching his chest.

“For the record, I’m not old enough to rent a car, let alone a windowless white van.  We’re all minors here, more or less,” he addressed Stuart in a way that Stuart guessed was supposed to make him feel better, before turning an affronted glance at Derek.  “And how dare you sully my simple fascination with the psychological implications of the choice of topic?” 

“Then bother Cora,” Derek answered.  “She’s the one who thinks the planet’s gonna blow up.  They’re just twins; it’s not a superpower.”

Derek briefly met Stuart’s eyes on the phrase, ‘Just twins,’ but glanced away just as quickly.  Three voices were enough to wake up Stiles, who sat up, rubbing his face, and then immediately getting to work running through their presentation to the newcomers.  Derek stood, bemused, as Stiles rattled off fact after fact, while Stuart and Peter watched. 

“It’s a shame that you don’t share a root system,” Peter had said, watching Stiles.  “Then he couldn’t leave you.”

It was the first time the thought had ever occurred to Stuart that he and Stiles might not be together for the rest of time.  Peter wandered off to bother someone else, and Derek extricated himself from Stiles’ excited explanations of every topic tangentially related to clonal colonies.  Stuart was left with Stiles’ excited explanations of why Derek was the coolest for the rest of the day.

Stuart didn’t need to hear about Hale then, and he sure as hell didn’t need to hear Stiles recounting his life story to Scott now, so he tuned it all out, thinking of root systems, until the car pulled to a stop and Scott went away.

“Stuart.  Stu.  Stuuuuuart.  You gonna come up front or am I gonna need to break out the chauffeur hat?"

Stuart got up front, flopping to the side and nuzzling Stiles' shoulder.

"You should’ve stayed home today," Stiles sighed, petting his hair and carefully not elbowing Stuart in the gut when he changed gears.

"Just tired. I don't like Hale."

"I'm not a big fan of sleet, myself—" Stiles started, clearly trying to redirect to a topic that didn’t piss off his brother.

"It's not good that he's back," Stuart interrupted. "You should stay out of the woods."

Stuart could feel Stiles rolling his eyes as he drove them home.

“I never do that kind of crap with anyone but you anyway,” Stiles pointed out. 

“McCall,” Stuart retorted.  Stiles shrugged, almost dislodging him.

“Extenuating circumstances,” Stiles replied breezily.  “It’s not like there’s gonna be a body in the woods every day.”

It poured that night, thunder cracking across the sky as the two of them did their homework while the Sheriff fretted silently about evidence being washed away before making an excuse to head into the station.  Stiles fussed about it, making sure he had his raincoat and an extra set of socks before he left, then resettled at the dining table.

“He’s working too hard,” Stiles worried out loud, fingers twitching, pencil drumming.  Stuart got up and grabbed the bottle of adderall out of the kitchen cabinet and removed a pill. 

“Open,” Stuart ordered, and Stiles rolled his eyes but obeyed, letting Stuart put the blue pill on his tongue, taking a long swig of his soda to wash it down. "Dad will be fine. I've already resigned myself to eating kale for dinner for the next decade. Exercise is good for him too, and going around—"

"I know, I know, " Stiles sighed.  Stuart ruffled his hair.

"C'mon, finish up your chem. It's late," he ordered.  Stiles snorted.

"You just adderalled me, Stu; I'm going to be up at least a couple hours. Go ahead and go to bed, dude. I'll be quiet coming up," Stiles replied, looking like their dad for a second, hangdog and exhausted and alone.

The ‘alone’ part was what clinched it for Stuart.

"Finish your chem and I'll get you to sleep," Stuart answered evenly. 

Stiles dropped his pencil.

"We…." Stiles began, then swallowed and started over, expression wary.  "It's been months, Stu; are you sure you wanna start this again?"

Stuart shrugged.  Two months, three weeks, and two days, actually, but there was a little spark of hunger behind Stiles’ caution.

"Lydia Martin's having a party. We'll crash it,” Stuart answered, giving his brother’s moral crisis a rational explanation to hide behind. “You don't wanna be rusty if she finally decides to dump Jackson, do you? "

Stiles shook his head and bent back over his chem homework.

"Flimsiest excuse ever," he grumbled, and Stuart put their dishes in the dishwasher and headed upstairs, satisfied.  Besides, that was completely untrue. One of the very first times, Stuart had said he'd wanted to see if he could feel Stiles' tonsils.

He couldn’t. Well, he couldn't tell if he could, but he might have lost track of his original intention at the first touch of their lips. 

Stiles was quiet coming in, as he'd promised, looking pretty and sheepish.  Stuart just shuffled over and lifted the covers, and Stiles didn't hesitate at all.

"Just kissing," Stiles said, and Stuart shrugged, pulling him closer.

They both slept fine. It had been time to change the sheets anyway.

 

 

At school the next day, Stuart tuned out Scott's rundown of getting the girl and making first line after school, because yeah, varsity first line lacrosse was worth more social currency than varsity soccer, but still.  Getting the girl was a sexist outdated notion which treated women like property, and Stuart refused to buy into it.

"You're concern-trolling because good stuff is happening to Scott," Stiles had retorted when Stuart said so aloud at the end of the day.  He was twitchier than usual, fingers drumming on the padded strap of his backpack.

"Then why are you the one who looks concerned?"  Stuart asked. "You've been quiet all day."

Stiles looked across parking lot at Scott hopping his bike, gleeful, innocent smile spread all over his crooked little face.  Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet once twice thrice and sighed explosively, turning to Stuart and flailing an arm out in Scott’s direction.

"Something is wrong with all this.”

Stuart was pretty inclined to agree.  Good stuff was happening to Scott, after all.

“I thought I was concern-trolling,” he replied instead.  Stiles dropped his arm and sighed again.

“Rabies might not be that far off," Stiles muttered, worrying at the skin around his thumbnail with his teeth before handing Stuart the keys to the Jeep.  “Can you drive?  I wanna look something up.”

Stiles handed over the keys willingly about as often as Stuart gave up shotgun, so Stuart took them, and tried to keep his eyes on the road and not on his brother’s frantic swyping. 

Stuart was about to open his mouth to say that he was pretty sure it took more than a few days to start showing rabies symptoms as he made the turn into their driveway.

“Scott’s a werewolf,” Stiles blurted out before Stuart could get the first word out.  He jumped out of the Jeep and ran into the house before it came to a complete stop, sneakers skidding over the asphalt, eyes still on his phone.

Stuart blinked and put the Jeep into park, grabbing Stiles’ backpack as well as his own before following.  He dropped them in the kitchen, closing the front door that Stiles had left hanging open.  He looked up the stairs to where he could hear Stiles clattering around their room, turning on the computer, knocking over stacks of books in search of the right one. 

Big questions didn’t generally scare Stuart, but one that would occasionally keep him up at night was wondering just how far he’d follow his brother before trying to drag Stiles back to _him._   Stiles’ wild enthusiasm and complete lack of regard for conventional wisdom often had Stuart wondering if his little brother was destined for a residential mental health facility.  Stiles had had wild ideas since they were little.  Hell, when they were little, they both did, but Stiles just never seemed to grow out of them.  Stuart had figured it would just take more time.  Werewolves, however, seemed like it might be a good place to set a boundary, so Stuart started up the stairs.

“I’m not wrong,” Stiles said, head snapping up the moment Stuart showed his face in the doorway.  “I’m not.  Stu, I’m not.  Just, look… god damn it, Stuart, _believe me._ ”

The last time Stuart had heard Stiles say that he wasn’t wrong in that tone was when Stiles had figured out that the thing that their parents were hiding wasn’t an impending divorce announcement, but a slow, wasting death on the horizon. 

“Okay,” Stuart said, stepping in and grabbing Stiles by the shoulders.  Stiles opened his mouth again, still frantic, until Stuart insisted, “Okay, calm the fuck down, I believe you.”

Stiles looked at him for a moment, looking for a lie.  When he didn’t find one, he relaxed in Stuart’s grip, looking embarrassed.  Stuart wasn’t sure how far Stiles’ thought process had gone past getting him to believe.

“But what do you want to do about it?” Stuart asked quietly, dropping his hands.  Stiles jumped straight back from idling to going ninety miles an hour, and stabbed at a page in the book he held with his index finger. 

“He can’t go to that party,” Stiles said frantically.  “Jackson pisses him off, Allison turns him on, it’s gonna be too much for him.”

Stuart took the book, skimming the page and nodding wearily.  Heart rate, bloodlust.  If Scott was a werewolf, the rest of adolescence was going to be a big damn problem. 

“And if he doesn’t listen to you?” Stuart asked.  Stiles blinked in confusion.

“Scott always listens to me.  I’ll just explain it to him,” he said.

 

 

Of course, the thing of it was that Stiles didn’t ‘explain’ stuff to Scott.  Stiles told Scott stuff, Scott went along with it, and then the way the situation played out proved that Stiles had been right, or really that Stuart was right, and Stiles was just right-er than Scott. 

None of those previous situations had featured a hormonal, infatuated Scott McCall who just might be about to get some for the first time in his life.  That Scott McCall was not interested in being told anything, and was really, really not okay with Stiles picking up his phone to cancel his first ever date.

“Stuart _don’t,_ ” Stiles shouted from where Scott had him pinned to the wall as Stuart picked up a desk chair with every intention of breaking Scott’s skull open with its ergonomic correctness.  Scott turned and smacked the chair out of his hand, dropping Stiles and raising a fist in Stuart’s direction instead.

“Scott, please,” Stiles said quietly from the floor, head tilted up.  Scott stared at Stuart, breathing hard, and then just like that seemed to shake it off, all apologies, and bolted.  Stiles grabbed Stuart’s pant leg before he could follow to try to push Scott down the stairs or run him over while he biked home.  Stuart was beside him in a second, checking the back of Stiles’ head for any bumps while Stiles insisted over and over that he was fine.

“That book say anything about how to kill werewolves?” Stuart asked, hugging Stiles tight once he was satisfied that Stiles probably hadn’t gotten a concussion.

“Not funny,” Stiles managed to say around Stuart’s shoulder, but hugged back just as fiercely. 

“Who’s being funny?” Stuart snapped.  Stiles drew back, catching his eyes and refusing to break the stare.

“Stu, it’s Scott.  He’s our friend, even though you hate having friends.  We can’t let him eat the new girl in school’s face." 

Stiles got to his feet, pulling Stuart with him. 

“Again,” Stuart said, straightening his glasses, “‘But what do you want to do about it?’”

“Crash the party,” Stiles sighed, walking over to the closet to change into something wasn’t stretched out from having supported his weight while pinned to a wall.  Stuart shook his head, grabbed the book, and if Stiles noticed as Stuart helped himself to Stiles’ limited edition silver plated replica of Ice from Game of Thrones letter opener as a bookmark, he didn’t say anything. 

Which meant he probably hadn’t noticed. 

Possibly because he was busy staring, grey faced, at the three gashes scored in the desk chair. 

“We should probably—” Stiles croaked, swallowing around a throat gone dry.

“Hurrying, yeah, got it,” Stuart finished grimly. 

 

 

Stiles parked the Jeep around the corner from the Martin house, and they sat there together as the engine ticked cool. 

“We need a plan,” Stiles said to the steering wheel more than to Stuart.  Stuart rolled his eyes and produced the letter opener, keeping his finger on the page.  Stiles slapped his own forehead and tried to take it away.  “A plan that doesn’t involve _stabbing Scott in front of half the school, Jesus!_ ”

“Okay, so that’s plan B.  Got a plan A?” Stuart asked reasonably. 

“We keep an eye on him,” Stiles said helplessly.  “I mean, obviously he’ll listen to reason eventually; he didn’t punch you in the face when I asked him not to.  We just have to be there to make sure he doesn’t aggro all over someone, y’know?”

Stuart slumped, tilting his head.

“That is the worst plan A you’ve ever come up with, Stiles, and that is _saying_ something,” he groaned.  Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but shut up when Stuart grabbed him by the back of his neck and leaned in, touching their foreheads together.

“You need to not be an idiot, and not get yourself hurt,” Stuart demanded. 

“You need to not overreact and make the situation blow up just because you’re mad at Scott,” Stiles retorted.  “Or, you know, summon Dad to the party by committing assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Letter opener.”

“Deadly office supply,” Stiles amended, squeezing Stuart’s wrist behind his own neck.  “C’mon.  Moonrise is in about twenty minutes.”

There were enough people there that they didn’t get noticed by Jackson or Matt or anyone else who’d start shit to get them kicked out, not that Lydia gave much of a crap who got cast as extras at her parties.  All you really had to do was shower and not dress like a carnie and you were acceptable.  It was easy enough for the two of them to sink into the crowd.  Stiles grabbed a beer and mingled, while Stuart got himself a rum and coke, minus the rum.  Someone was going to have to drive home and not get pulled over by one of their dad’s deputies. 

Stuart kept one eye, at all times, on Stiles, who kept both eyes on Scott with only the barest hint of subtlety.  For a moment, Stuart thought he caught the same tight, pained expression on Stiles’ face usually reserved for Lydia and Jackson’s intimate moments when Scott and Scott’s not-girlfriend started dancing together.  Stuart couldn’t really tell if it was jealousy over the situation, or over Scott. 

Maybe when they got home, once whatever the hell was going to happen had happened, in their room that night, Stuart would ask Stiles if he wanted to practice dancing. 

Then Stuart looked _past_ Stiles, and there, like he was auditioning for a remake of Dazed and fucking Confused, was Derek Hale at a high school party.  Stuart swore to himself and found a place to set down his cup.  Hale was watching Stiles, staying out of his view, but staring straight at him.  Stuart picked through the crowd, book under one arm and the letter opener tucked into the back of his jeans, looping around through the open archways of the Martin McMansion to come up behind Hale instead. 

“What was that you said about private property?” Stuart asked his back.  Hale glanced over his shoulder at Stuart and gave a dismissive snort.

“Like you were invited,” Hale muttered, turning back around and tracking Stiles again.  “At least I didn’t bring a book.”

A clumsy drunk tripped and forced Stuart forward, pressed almost directly against Hale’s back, the crowd chattering behind them filling up the space so that Stuart didn’t have room to edge back again.

“Stop creeping on my brother,” Stuart said, only loud enough for Hale to hear, who turned a look of complete contempt back at him.  Whether it was for the suggestion that Hale was watching Stiles or the fact that Stuart was in sustained physical contact with his ridiculous back in its ridiculous leather jacket, Stuart wasn’t sure.  “Who even wears a leather jacket to a party?  Unless you're hoping dead cow and BO is preferable to Old Spice Spice and syphilis."

"Good question,” Hale countered mildly.  “Maybe I’ll ask your brother.  What’s his name?  ‘Stiles?’  Wave to him."

Stuart turned from Hale to see Stiles looking at them both, jerking his head in Scott's direction when Stuart made eye contact, just as Scott bolted for the door, nearly bent double. His date followed incredulously after, Stiles taking off after them both.

"If I were you, I'd go after your ride, kid, " Hale smirked.  Stuart sucked his own canine, considering whether he had time to stab through a leather jacket.

"Before someone else does," he added, in case Stuart had missed the implication.  Stuart hissed and took off.  Stiles was right outside, Jeep already running.

"Scott drove off and left Allison; I think he turned towards his house," Stiles said, hopping over the gear shift into the passenger seat when Stuart opened the driver's side.  He yanked the letter opener out of his pants and tossed it in the cup holder to avoid impaling his own ass cheek, slamming the door behind him.

"Buckle up, " he ordered before Stiles could complain about his mistreatment of collectibles.  Out of the corner of his eye, Stuart saw Scott’s not-girlfriend duck into a black Camaro as Hale held the door for her. 

“Better her than you,” Stuart muttered, doubting Stiles would hear him over the sound of the Jeep peeling out.

 

 

Scott's mom's car was parked haphazardly in front of their house when Stuart pulled up. Stiles jumped out before the car had stopped _again_ , scrambling through the door that Scott hadn't bothered to lock.

"You are not coordinated enough to do your own stunts, idiot," Stuart grumbled, throwing the Jeep into park more aggressively than necessary before jumping out to chase Stiles chasing Scott. 

They were talking through the bathroom door, which Scott had deigned to open a few inches.  The smell of steam was starting to fill the hall, the white noise of the shower running in the background.  The moment Stuart was visible behind Stiles, Scott slammed the door and bolted it again.

“Scott, c’mon!”  Stiles said, jiggling the knob frantically.

“No!  Stiles, you have to go find Allison!” Scott insisted through what sounded like a mouthful of taffy. 

“She’s probably still at the party!” Stiles said, then added quietly, “Probably telling Lydia what a dick you are.”

“She got a ride,” Stuart snapped, kicking at the base of the door.  “Are we done?”

Stiles turned to stare at Stuart, and Stuart was pretty sure Scott was doing the same thing behind the door.

“From who?” Scott snarled from behind the door.

“Who cares?” Stuart asked, immediately regretting bringing up Hale, directly or indirectly.

“Answer the man,” Stiles prompted when Stuart didn’t fill in the blank.  Stuart rolled his eyes.

“Derek Hale,” Stuart said.  Stiles made a face.

“What the hell was Derek Hale even doing at a high school party?” Stiles sputtered.

“Probably trying to get drunk high school tail?” Stuart, shrugged.

“How was he trying to get high school tail when I saw him talking to you?” Stiles asked, before his eyes went wide.  “Oh my god, was he hitting on you?” 

“He left with Allison, so, probably not,” Stuart pointed out.  Stiles was distracted from this line of thinking by a sound from in the bathroom.

“Scott, that better not have been the window,” Stiles said  There wasn’t any reply, even when he started pounding on the door again.  _“Scott!”_

Stiles dropped his forehead against the door.

“We’re going home,” Stuart said, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him.  Stiles shook his head frantically.

“No, we have to go after Scott.  Or Allison.  You go after Allison, I’ll go after Scott,” Stiles answered, trying to push past him.  Stuart put both hands on Stiles’s chest.

“No.”

 _“Fine_ , you go after Scott, I’ll go after Allison, _whatever-—_ ”

“We’re not going after anyone!” Stuart grabbed Stiles’ shoulders and shook him once.  “Seriously!  If Amanda—”

"Allison.”

“—is still with Hale, then they could be anywhere.  If she’s dead in a ditch, she’s dead in a ditch.  If she’s home, then there isn’t a problem!”

“Stu, Scott is out there somewhere—”

"Exactly.  Somewhere.  He went on foot, Stiles!  We have no idea where he’s heading or what he’s going to do, and unless you got bitten by a werebloodhound, we have no way to find him.”

Stiles eyes darted back and forth between Stuart’s trying to pick one to lock onto.

“He freaked out when you said it was Derek who gave Allison a ride from the party,” he said, wrapping his hands around Stuart’s wrists, not to try to break free, but to ground himself, keep his thoughts from flailing by keeping his hands still.  “So he’s gonna go looking for Derek.  If he’s getting all feral, he’ll probably go back to the preserve; it’s the last place Scott saw him.”

Stuart shook his head.

“He pinned you to a wall and disemboweled a desk chair when he was feeling way more like himself than he is now!  If you go chasing after him in the woods, and he thinks you’re trying to stop him from getting to Alexan—”

“Her name’s Allison!  And I’m not gonna let Scott eat me or Derek bad-touch you, if that’s what you’re worried about!” Stiles exploded.  “Look, we’ll drive the road around the preserve, stick close to the edges.  If Scott gets his head out of his furry ass, he’ll have to walk home, home equals roads.  We won’t go in the woods unless we spot him.”

Stuart knew he was fucked because Stiles had gone from twitching and flailing to still and staring, from shattered thoughts to single focus.

“Fuck.  Are you sober enough to drive?” Stuart groaned. 

“I had half a beer, dude, of course I am,” Stiles scoffed.

“Because the last two times I’ve driven you anywhere, you’ve jumped out of the car before it was parked.  I’m hoping that maybe if you’re driving, you’ll remember to stop the car first,” Stuart snapped.  “Especially before running into _the fucking woods, alone._ ”

He shoved the keys into Stiles’ hand and stomped down the stairs, glaring in the passenger seat of the Jeep until Stiles caught up and started the engine.  Stuart stared out the window as they drove, not speaking, the silence only broken by the buzz of notifications on Stiles’ phone.  Stiles glanced over at him occasionally as they slowly circled the preserve, the time between each glance diminishing the longer Stuart sat silent.

“Are you okay?” Stiles finally asked.  Stuart swallowed hard. 

“It’s been a long day,” he answered.  Stiles nodded grimly.

“I promise I won’t ever leave you alone with this, okay, Stu?” he said.  “No more splitting up, even at a party.”

Stuart glanced over at him, confused.  Stiles missed the expression, staring ahead with his eyes on the road.

“I got so focused on Scott that I didn’t even see Derek bothering you,” Stiles continued.  “Damn it, this wouldn’t have even happened if I’d just come home and brought you your food.  I don’t know how to put that back in the bottle, but I’m not gonna let it get between us, okay?”

Stuart nodded absently, but Stiles just wasn’t letting it go.

“Tell me you know that,” he demanded, now looking at Stuart with glances back to the road rather than the other way around.

Stuart sighed. 

“Yeah.  I know that.  Which is why I’m telling you to slow down and watch the road instead of letting you run over Scott.”

Stiles’ head snapped forward, and sure enough, Scott had emerged from the woods, shirtless and bedraggled in the early morning light.

“Jesus!” Stiles slowed the Jeep, managing to keep it on the road, and kept heading toward him. 

“It is a terrible travesty that I don’t have the closing theme from The Incredible Hulk on my phone to make this moment perfect,” Stuart muttered when Scott turned, giving the a weak smile and stuck his thumb out.  Stiles pulled alongside him and shook his head.

“Scott, you’re supposed to leave your shirt on and just show a little leg,” Stiles scolded, squirming out of his own jacket and handing it to Scott once he'd climbed in the back.  Scott looked at him in weary confusion.  “Warner Brothers?  Like, every old cartoon ever?  Never mind.”

“Did you find Allison?” Scott asked, pulling the coat over his shoulders.  Stiles glanced at Stuart and exhaled, putting the Jeep into gear and making a K-turn to take them back toward home.

“We didn’t look for her.  We weren’t splitting up, so when you ran off, I said we were going after you,” Stiles answered.  Scott’s eyes went wide.

“What?  Stiles!  Derek had her jacket; it’s how he got me out here!” he shouted.  Stuart turned and glared at him.

“You have to calm down, Scott,” he ordered.  Scott’s eyes flashed yellow.  “That is not calming down!” 

 “Stop telling me to calm down!” Scott snapped.

“Both of you calm down,” Stiles said, tossing his phone to Scott in the back seat.  “Look.  She texted me asking if you were okay an hour ago.  Please don’t Hulk-smash my phone.  Or my Jeep.  Or my brother.  Or me!  Let’s just not smash anything at all, okay buddy?”

Scott held the phone like it was a baby bird. 

“She asked about me?” he said reverently. 

“Oh my god,” Stuart groaned.  “It is too early or late for this.” 

Stiles, meanwhile, plowed right ahead with the optimism.

“Exactly, dude, she cares whether you live or die!  That’s a solid foundation for a relationship!”

Stuart side-eyed him and Stiles shrugged.

“Hey, if she doesn’t care whether you live or die, it’s probably pretty hard to get her to care about what she wants to do with you on Friday night,” Stiles pointed out.  “It’s a very deep foundation.  Way down.”

“Nestled in the toasty mantle of the earth?” Stuart asked. 

“Exactly!” Stiles agreed.  “Scott knows what I’m saying, right?” 

They both glanced into the back seat to see Scott, sound asleep, Stiles’ phone cuddled to his chest like a teddy bear. 

“Poor guy’s all tuckered out,” Stiles cooed, eyes back on the road.  Stuart, on the other hand, took a few pictures. 

“Send me those,” Stiles added.


End file.
